


testament

by paxlux



Series: author's favorites [15]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-17
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-19 18:06:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1479118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paxlux/pseuds/paxlux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His memory runs backwards in crooked bright flashes, hard as the noise flare of an assault rifle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	testament

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Завет](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2590436) by [Loki (secretlytodream)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/secretlytodream/pseuds/Loki)



> I cobbled together the movies and the small prequel comic tie-in. And then I hand waved.
> 
> Please do not repost anywhere else without my express authorization, this includes PDFs and downloadable files.

The rooftop is cold. There’s a matchbook in his right pocket and a sniper scope in his left. He watches the windows in the building across from him, fifth story, three from the right. 

He can light a match off his metal fingers, but he doesn’t. He stares at the book for a second, then folds a match over the bottom without tearing it and strikes the head on the strip, letting it flare. It’s dangerous, even the single lit match, someone could see it.

He presses it back into the book and lets it light the rest of the matches. He sets the burning matchbook on the bricks in front of him.

He pulls the scope out of his pocket and watches the windows through the smoke.

-

The man on the bridge says a name, _recognition_ , and he hesitates (hesitate and die).

Something’s broken. There’s something _here_ —

The man on the bridge knew him.

And he knew the man on the bridge, he _knew_. 

He hesitates. (Will he die, he doesn’t know, he’s trapped, his arm is useless, the world is falling out of the sky, he’s—)

-

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. Two objectives. A woman and her son. Berlin. He makes it look like a burglary.

Then he’s in the chair, screaming. They walk him away and it’s freezing cold.

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. Three objectives. No relation to each other. Krakow. Minsk. Lyons. A car crash. A bullet. A garrote in a dirty alley.

Then he’s in the chair, screaming. They walk him away and it’s freezing cold.

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. One objective. High profile. Dallas. A bullet. He requires extraction.

Then he’s in the chair, screaming. They walk him away and it’s freezing cold.

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. One objective. Public place. Multiple casualties. Collateral damage. He sustains injuries.

Then he’s in the chair, screaming. They walk him away and it’s freezing cold.

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. Objectives. Sniper rifle. (He puts the discarded shells in his pocket, snipers don’t leave traces.) Knives. Injuries. Collateral damage. 

Then he’s in the chair, screaming. They walk him away and it’s freezing cold.

Over and over and over—

He opens his eyes. Files. Pictures. New York. He turns the corner and—

And he’s blinded by light on glass and he opens his eyes, he knows this street, it used to look different, but he knows it, and he’s late for something, not extraction, no, the mission doesn’t leave his building until eighteen-oh-four sharp, he has to find – he picks up his pace and is blinded again, searing light cutting across his vision, he stumbles and hits the bricks, hard, sparks coming from his metal fingers, he knows this street, New York, there’s something _here_ —

He kills his rendezvous, three bullets which is excessive and he will be reprimanded for this, but he has to find it, whatever it is, _a ghost_ , it’s gone, slipping from him, he knows _he knows_ it’s here in New York it’s here somewhere.

His memory runs backwards in crooked bright flashes, fits and starts, hard as the noise flare of an assault rifle, squeeze the trigger, new _old_ memories ghosts like gunfire they hit him and he hunches it’s just ghosts there’s something here an alley you touch him again and I’ll kill you his memory runs backwards in crooked bright flashes I ain’t lost and we—

He slips his handlers for three weeks, pickpocketing the naïve strangers on the streets, hiding in doorways and sleeping in an alley behind a bakery, except he doesn’t really sleep anymore, he’s lost here in New York, something’s broken, he’ll find it, something’s broken.

They find him. They subdue him and he fights. They dismantle his arm. They put him in the chair and two pads come up with an awful whirring, the pads squeeze his head and he screams—

Then it’s cold.

-

They put him in an icy chamber, like a tube, a tall, upended gun barrel. He doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know what he’s done wrong to – is this punishment, he did what they told him to do, he killed a room full of people, twelve objectives in less than the time allotted. It got a round of applause.

He doesn’t know what he’s done – it’s freezing, his skin’s burning cold, it’s—

-

They beat him. They train him. He could kill everyone in the room, but not efficiently. (It must be efficient, it must be deadly, to hesitate is to die, you remember the pain, don’t you, do you want more of it.) 

He learns. It becomes muscle memory or it becomes pain. His choice.

A man puts a gun in his hand and says, “Shoot the woman,” and he doesn’t because he doesn’t know who she is or what she’s done to deserve—

They beat him, fry his nerves, leave him in a dark room where he can’t stand or sit or kneel.

It becomes muscle memory or it becomes pain.

A man puts a gun in his hand and says, “Shoot the woman,” so he does. The light goes out of her eyes instantly.

"Excellent work," someone says, not to him. "Success!"

-

He sees his arm, metal, the fingers curl and he sees his arm, flesh, the fingers curl.

He doesn’t remember anything. He doesn’t have a name, he can only feel his body, there’s nothing in his mind ( _he used to have something in his pockets_ ).

It’s as if he's being haunted. He sees shapes in his peripheral, but there’s nothing.

A table with a knife and a gun. He knows how to use those.

-

He’s dragged through the snow and he can’t feel his left side, not much of his body works right, he feels like he’s trailing his intestines, he’s—

Pain, so much pain, he thinks he’ll die but he doesn’t and that’s _worse_ because it’s familiar and he can’t die, he can’t, it won’t let go, it—

He feels the hum of a machine in his teeth, spreading up into his skull until there’s _nothing_ but this hum and it’s separating his joints, pulling apart his bones, there’s a horrible tugging on his left shoulder, maybe he’s being eaten, meat for the machine, fire is—

He’s strapped to a chair, half-seated, he can’t close his eyes, he can’t move— 

Let’s try that again, a tiny little man says. And this time, up the power. 

No, no, not again, Bucky’s gone blind and he can’t feel his fingers, his heart stops, starts, skips ( _like a pencil on paper_ ), no, not again—

A needle in his arm and electricity skims through his veins. Pulling on his shoulder, maybe his skeleton will be yanked out through his socket and he starts to panic.

 _Nicht schwer genug zu tun, aber es wird_.

It happens over and over and over and over and—

It happens over and over and—

-

He’s staring at the railway pass through the mountains and it’s giving him a creeping feeling outside of all the cold from the snow and ice. He stops himself from putting his hands in his pockets.

“C’mon, Bucky, I need you watching my back,” Steve says and don’t that beat all, he says it like it’s the answer to everything, and for a second, Bucky accepts it like chapter and verse, _and lo it was foretold unto them who believe_.

When he picks up the shield in the middle of an outgunned firefight, he thinks, Bullseye, shoot me shoot me not Steve _shoot me_.

When he falls, there’s nothing but—

-

He says, “What about Agent Carter,” because he might be a bit of a bastard but he’s not heartless and Steve’s a gentleman, so two-timing a woman isn’t really their style. 

He thinks she’s Steve’s what-if, his could-be, and Steve stares at his sketchbook. 

“I didn’t say anything. She said she could tell when I mentioned you.”

“What’d you mention me for, you big dummy.”

“Talking tactics for the next base. Setting you up on a hill to give cover and—“

Bucky shakes his head. “So what’s the picture for.”

“The Army doesn’t exactly care about privacy, especially Captain America’s. All those damn newsreels. And she’s been a good friend.” Steve’s pencil leaves a little judder on the page. “Before the serum. Before I found you.”

That’s one thing Bucky needs to thank her for: not many other people with working eyes see what Steve’s really like. She did, does, and Steve is doodling circles which means something’s bothering him.

“You didn’t lead her on, Steve.” 

“No, but.” 

And Bucky knows then she really is Steve’s what-if, his could-be and maybe he should bow out, maybe he should get while the getting’s good, it’d split him in half to do it, but he’s been not-alive before, functioning’s all you need.

He could do it.

He shifts his weight and suddenly, Steve’s in his space, eyes bright like all those times he’s been sick, feverish and delirious, and Bucky’s about to panic when Steve says, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“What, I didn’t—“

“I know you, James Buchanan Barnes, you and your fucking protective streak a mile wide, you are _not_ gonna walk away and send me to Peggy hat in hand.”

“Didn’t know we were having a lovers’ quarrel, Rogers.”

“We aren’t, you imbecile, ‘cause I’m stopping you before you start one.”

Fingers wrap around his wrist, tight, Steve holding on as if Bucky’s something wild he just caught and Bucky can feel his pulse shoot up his arm where Steve’s squeezing.

“Steve, I know you’re stupid but this takes the cake. She’s perfect for you and you’d be safe—you’d be _okay_ with the guys. Got your girl, got your gun, got your shield, got your spangly outfit. You’re Captain America. You’re.” Bucky’s run out of words. “Good. Right.” He looks around, feeling a little desperate, maybe he can fight his way out with just a pencil. 

“Stop shitting me, Barnes,” Steve says. “I’m no good without you.”

“Who you tryin to impress.”

“No one, certainly not you.”

Bucky smirks and Steve smiles and ain’t that the way. “You know me, maybe if you picked up a tank, I’d swoon.” It comes out a little mean, Bucky can sabotage most things, he doesn’t want to sabotage this.

Still.

Steve frowns, runs a hand through his hair and tosses the sketchbook at Bucky.

“See for yourself,” he says, then he leaves. 

He’s been sketching Bucky for years, ever since he first picked up a pencil, Bucky knew that, Steve draws whatever he can see, mostly the city: streets, buildings, strangers, Bucky, strings of laundry, pigeons, the fast beating heart of New York. Here in the war though, between dancing monkeys and chorus girls and Peggy and Army vehicles, there are continuous doodles of Bucky. Drawn from memory. He’s on every page at least once.

It’s eerie, staring at himself coming from Steve’s hands and brain.

On the next empty page, he scrawls a message. The usual maudlin fare – I don’t make it out, you go stay with her.

He’s lost this fight (he’s still alive, after all), this might be the best he can do. It’s how he knows to protect this new and improved Steve Rogers.

He finds the pencil stub in his pocket later. Steve doesn’t say anything about anything, just kisses him over a map and leaves a bruise on his collarbone, hands tight on Bucky’s hips.

-

Bucky’s bunking with the other Commandos, the place smells of smuggled wine and old socks and mud (who knew Europe smelled of mud), but Steve’s a fancy-ass officer, gets his own tent, so Bucky rattles the flap, says, “Coming in,” not waiting for permission, an old habit from sharing an apartment (hell, his whole life) with Steve.

Steve looks up from a map and he says something strange, “You look good in blue, Buck,” and it’s like the veil's been lifted, Bucky’s survived growing up in mean conditions, survived being shot at on a near daily basis, and he’s not a good man, he might not deserve anything except a cigarette and a hole in the ground, so tomorrow he'll blame the war when he loses his head and kisses Steve.

He's always wanted more, too much, Steve said once, ‘You take the world by the throat and shake to see what falls out,’ and that’s about right until he realizes he’s kissing Steve, tongue against Steve’s mouth and this is way too much, this is him killing his world with a single squeeze, so he lets go with one last pass of his tongue and leaves.

Someone approaches him as he walks out towards the trees, he can’t see who, he snarls and they back off; he feels feral and lost and the trees offer the only protection, he’s exposed, easy target for anyone including that giant blonde idiot he just kissed. He hurries for the trees, finds a wide one a ways in and hunches down. He might vomit and dimly, he thinks he doesn't want to vomit on his boots, mud is bad enough but vomit too after that is worse, maybe it’s actually appropriate for him now.

Steve doesn’t find him before nightfall and they don’t talk as they ship out in the pre-dawn light for the next base and Bucky isn’t holding his rifle so tightly he loses the feeling in his fingers.

He goes on muscle memory, blocking out all but the Commandos’ voices and following German syllables and gunfire, until he’s almost out of ammo with a knife in his pocket and Steve suddenly looms over him as a tank rolls through the garage bay Bucky’s about to enter.

The barrel swings to sight them and there’s that subtle silence before a tank fires.

Bucky knows what a death wish is, maybe that's why he kissed Steve. He hesitates for a second, staring at the darkness down the barrel.

Then Steve’s got a grip on his ribs like a vise and, why Christ why, he’s got his shield out to deflect a direct shell from a Tiger panzer, so Bucky yanks and topples them sideways as the tank fires, a thundering like the earth has just cracked.

Then they're on their feet, running and Bucky sees some of the guys move to intercept.

The tank blows with a handful of grenades dropped in its belly and after securing the base, it's still burning, the stink of gasoline and oil fires and Steve shoves Bucky against crumbling bricks beside the dead barrel, fallen embedded in a wall.

“Fucking wise guy,” Steve snaps and Bucky retorts, “Jerk, screw you,” and Steve’s voice is going up, “You need another asshole, that why you just gonna let a tank put a hole in you?”

“Maybe, yeah.” He shifts his weight, pulls his shoulders back, fighting stance. “Seemed like a damn good idea at the time.”

And Steve’s _furious_ , framed by the fiery hulk of destroyed machinery and Steve’s so much _himself_ , Bucky wants to cry suddenly, that low dark voice and barely-held anger all bundled into a super soldier Bucky’s not sure he always recognizes except how Steve’s eyes are a deep fighting blue as he says, “Stop shitting me, Barnes.”

Then Steve kisses him and Bucky’s breathing gasoline into the kiss because there’s a war on and there’s things you can do in a war and still be good, but breaking your best friend in all the wrong ways isn’t one of them.

He pulls back and Steve follows, mouth on his skin, and Bucky says, “Someone'll see,” while he meant to say, No, what the hell, you're Captain America, go back to Carter, she’ll take care of you right, I can’t, not like this.

“No, they won't, they're making one last sweep—“

“What about traps.”

Steve leans away now and sighs. “You didn't mean it earlier. That, uh, kiss back at camp.”

“We're in a warzone, Steve. HYDRA base.” Something pops inside the tank, sizzles, but Steve blocks to keep him there, makes a complicated gesture like their surroundings don’t concern him.

“Tell me. Did you mean it.”

That hopefulness, writ large on Steve like always, and Bucky gives in, like always, guess somethings’ll never change, he never did know when to quit.

“I did, still do,” he says, doesn’t look Steve in the eye, confessing sins to Steve is almost worse than pulling a trigger. “We’ve got a rendezvous point to get to right now, Captain America.”

He stresses it, the shining name, the beacon like the star on Steve’s chest, and a shadow hardens in Steve’s gaze, his mouth tightens.

But he still leans in slow and kisses Bucky again and for all that’s wrong with him, Bucky kisses back.

In camp, Bucky expects the fallout, because yeah, he’s wanted Steve ever since he knew what kissing was and what his dick was for and he wasn’t about to let Steve down like that, Steve’s meant for radiant things, like the future, like the Expo they went to so fucking long ago; Steve’s too big for this world, no matter his physical size and Bucky wasn’t about to hang onto him like that, drag him down. But Steve’s hand is tight on Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky’s going lightheaded, Steve talking sad-sounding and earnest, “Buck, you think it's only you, you got it all wrong, the same for me too, the same.”

“How long,” Bucky asks without thinking and Steve smiles, rueful.

“Remember Johnny Doyle’s cousin, Devlin? That fight you almost lost an eye?”

He and Steve had been playing by an alley entrance when Johnny and his cousin came by, and they decided they didn't like Steve's face. Devlin Logue was a bruiser, a real thug, and Bucky couldn't stand him, he harassed the girls up and down the block, terrorized the kids and the elderly, and was too big for anyone to do anything.

They didn’t like Steve and went after him and Bucky did what was natural: he stepped in, only he had a piece of glass in his hand Johnny and Devlin didn't see at first. After a few good slashes, “didn’t think I could make you any uglier, Logue,” blood dripping on the pavement, they changed tactics. With a kick to the chest, Steve was incapacitated, wheezing with a horrible clicking sound deep in his throat and Bucky was terrified. They rounded on Bucky, beat and kicked him in his soft stomach, stomped on his fingers and a boot caught him on the ridge of his eye, a twist almost dislocated his left shoulder. He was scrabbling, fighting back, he got to his feet because Steve was crying in the alley dust, barely breathing, little busted noises as he said over and over, ‘I’ll kill you, Johnny, you touch him again and I’ll kill you.’

They beat Bucky until he couldn’t feel his left side anymore and his ear was ringing and he couldn't move, fallen over against the wall. His tongue went numb. He swallowed and tasted blood.

They beat Bucky to teach Steve a lesson.

And Bucky didn’t care, he’d spent the whole time scared Steve would stop breathing.

“That’s,” he can’t believe it, that was eons ago, they were twelve maybe, he stares at his hands, “that’s—“

“A long fucking time to know something’s wrong with you,” Steve says, quiet and solemn. He runs a hand through his hair, eyes closed.

But it’s just them, nothing’s changed, how Steve leans into his side, Bucky can see it, they’ve always been like this, brothers and closer, in each other’s pockets for as long as history’s been history and they can’t be wrong by being them.

(He used to pull this trick on Steve, ‘hey, Steve, lookit,’ and Steve would turn to him, close, say, ‘What’m I looking at besides a jerk,’ and Bucky’d say, ‘Punk,’ and point at some fake spot, then trip Steve and Steve would shove at him and they'd wrestle until he’d wriggle away, jogging, Steve in high pursuit, both of them careful of his asthma.)

So he says, “Hey, Rogers, lookit,” and Steve does look up, says, “What’m I looking at, Barnes, besides a—“ and Bucky kisses him.

And Steve kisses back, hard and deep, tugs at Bucky’s clothes and Bucky gives as good as he gets.

Later, half-naked in the dark, he says, “I ain’t lost and we ain’t wrong.”

Steve shifts against him on the tiny cot, they’re too warm, but no one’s complaining. “So when we get back home—“

Bucky doesn’t let him finish. “When we get back,” is all he says. It’s something he’s dreamed about and it might come true, but he’s a realist. It’s war. War ain’t fair.

Steve’s got that fucking bullseye and all that hope and Bucky will follow him into the jaws of hell itself.

“You and me. All the way,” he says, because Bucky Barnes isn't afraid of anything.

“Understood, Sergeant.”

When he leaves to go back to the Commandos’ tent, Steve’s sleeping on his back, limbs in unconscious sprawl, his hand over his heart and his other arm palm up as if he’s taking an oath.

In the morning, Bucky’s outlining supplies for the next raid and Steve smiles, says, “Understood, Sergeant,” and damned if Bucky can’t help himself, he grins back and Morita shakes a rag at them, says, “Yeah, we all love them K-rations, so tasty, now get over here and help me sort this ammo.”

-

There’s a wine cork in his right pocket and nothing in his left, he gave St. Anthony to Steve because neither one of them’s lost, but Steve believes that little bit more than Bucky, and it’s a quiet day, a time of passover as it were because death has come and gone, bombers sailing through the drizzling sky, and they duck and cover until all clear.

Just breathing in the trees and Bucky’s eyes adjust, he can see Gabe and Morita huddled together in the fog, everyone frozen in weird poses, Dugan looks like he’s hugging a fucking tree to get his big bones behind it.

He almost laughs, they’re all comical, Steve’s staring at the sky like it might betray him somehow (bombs would be the way to do it) and Dernier’s eyes are huge in the gloom.

He almost laughs and when they’re back on the march, the butt of his gun catches the edge of the shield, a vibrant _twang_ reverberating out from them, and Falsworth purses his lips as Morita half-drops to the ground with a snarl.

“Do I have to separate you two,” Falsworth says, words clipped tight as his mustache and Bucky so wants to laugh, it’s sitting high in his chest, and Steve makes a clicking sound with his tongue.

“Sergeant Barnes here was merely making sure you lazy bums aren’t walking in your sleep. Wouldn’t wanna walk into a tree, wouldja.”

Dugan and Gabe grin and Dernier huffs a laugh as he lights a cigarette, Morita dusts himself off, muttering, “You fuckin lousy bastards, it ain’t a fuckin gong, y’know,” but Falsworth's stare says he’s chiding them in his head for being less than worthy soldiers, spies even, covert is covert and nothing says covert like announcing your arrival.

Bucky gives in and laughs, it might sound a little hysterical, he might laugh a little too hard, but it’s worth it. Steve smirks, shrugs his shoulders so the shield moves and Bucky taps it again with the gun.

“Enough of your shitty jokes, you wanna stand around and waste time talkin about the price of tea in China or you wanna blow shit up,” he says as the sound rings around them. “I for one vote for blowin shit up.”

“It will be a tragedy if you become the victim of friendly fire, Barnes,” Falsworth says, and Gabe says, “Sure, a real tragedy, we’ll make sure to aim for your ass.”

“Quite.”

“You really think that’d shut him up,” Dugan says, “he’d whine and cry and make us carry him back to camp,” and Dernier flicks his cigarette, “I did not sign on as a nursemaid for you, _fils de pute_.” 

“So what you’re really sayin is you’ll all save a bullet for me, that’s so sweet,” Bucky says and Steve says, “Good teamwork, we’ve all worked hard to reach this moment when we agree to shoot Bucky to shut him the hell up. For the good of the team. Hell, for the good of the world.”

He rolls his eyes and Steve smirks and ain’t that the way, they’re on the edge of another fight at another base in a country that isn’t theirs and Bucky thinks he smells like he fell in a pigsty (which he did, but that was yesterday), and he knows he’s where he’s supposed to be.

-

He’s Steve’s second-in-command, he’ll fight anyone who tries to kick him out of that place. He stands tall with Steve’s wing insignia sewn on his left sleeve. He’s good with a quiet knife and better with a rifle and Steve watches him with a bit of that old Steve he knew, the one who’d say, ‘I start the fights and you finish ‘em, Buck, really wish it was the other way ‘round.’ Once he’d fought a German hand-to-hand, thick and fast, dirty like he was back in Brooklyn, taking the Jerry out at the knees, then at the throat and when he looked up, Falsworth and Steve and Dugan were staring at him, eyes big in their faces as if they'd never seen battle before. Bucky spit blood and said, ‘Show’s over,’ then found his gun dropped in the dirt and that was that. They took down a sleepy HYDRA base in three hours that day, and that night, Steve said, ‘You fight like a demon, Buck,’ and stupidly, Bucky blurted, ‘I'm sorry,’ and Steve slung an arm round his shoulders, face tucked against Bucky's temple, said, ‘No, I'm proud.’

(He’s stretched flat on a rock, ragged edges digging in his sternum and elbows, and he puts Steve’s skull in the crosshairs, keeps Steve’s body in sight to orient himself to Steve’s location in the environment before seeing the black stain of movement, an enemy soldier, then he puts a bullet in the enemy’s brain, crosshairs perfect, where Steve was seconds ago. He puts the discarded shell in his pocket, snipers don’t leave traces.)

Everywhere they go, they go shoulder to shoulder and Bucky finishes all the fights Steve starts.

-

Agent Carter takes one look at him and says, “Yes, I can tell.” He’s not sure what she’s talking about, he waves a hand, cocks a smile, and she continues, “Steve mentioned you. You’re why he jumped out of a plane at night over enemy lines. They tried to shoot us down, you know. Came damn near to succeeding.”

No, he didn’t know, and he’s slightly not surprised because Steve is and always will be a stubborn kid, who can now apparently move the world if he wants instead of just talking at it. 

He tries for charm, he’s got it there somewhere. “Sounds like a fun story to tell the grandkids.” 

“Isn’t it,” she says, sitting next to him, all perfume and proper uniform and of course Peggy Carter has perfume while there’s a war, he can see she’d demand a man’s head on a plate and then take it herself. 

If Steve chose her, then Steve chose right. She’ll be good for him, pure spitfire and red lipstick. He’s a little suspicious Steve could _talk_ to her let alone woo her, but Bucky’s gotten over being taken in by much of anything anymore.

“You’re not the sit back and let things happen type. You probably like all the dragon-slaying stories,” Bucky says, careful. “No princesses for you.”

“On the contrary, Sergeant Barnes, all the princesses for me. They just happen to wield swords.”

She smiles and he smiles back, in another life, he’d clean up, slick his hair back, put his hands in his pockets and pursue her, but here they’re just two dangerous people who know the lengths they’ll go to get something done. 

He leans in a little, says, “A gun’s quicker than a sword,” and she laughs, red curls falling back over her shoulders. 

“But when I run out of ammunition, I’ll need that sword.”

“You got me there.”

She laughs again and Bucky’s smile feels a little more natural.

“I see you’ve met Bucky, uh, again,” Steve says, striding towards them, “he’s not propositioning – I mean, proposing, or what, he’s not—I, uh—“

They’re both watching him fumble before Agent Carter says, “I was about to ask him what he thinks of your shield. Tactical defense.”

“Tactical defensive weapon,” Steve says immediately and Bucky glances at her and she gives a shrug. 

“Maybe. But. It’s a bullseye. What the hell are you thinking, they’ll shoot at you, Steve, you moron,” Bucky says, getting warm and Steve stares at him, hard, says, “I can take it, better me than you,” and Bucky snaps at that, “You don’t gotta do that, I can take it, I've been in this war a fuck bit longer than you,” and Steve retorts, “I draw their fire, you clean ‘em up,” and Bucky isn’t mollified, fucking patriotic bullseye shining as hopeful as Steve is, he’s even more angry as Agent Carter shifts away, says, “He has a point.”

He’s protected Steve all his life. He still will, as long as he’s breathing; he knows Agent Carter will as well, the way she looks at him, but this argument is going nowhere except speedily downhill, until she clarifies, “Sergeant Barnes is right.”

“What,” Steve says flatly. He crosses his arms, seeming to gain height and width.

“You can’t completely risk yourself. You’re Captain America, yes, I know, super soldier at the front lines and all that. But. You’ll need soldiers with you. You don’t need to do it alone. You aren’t simply there for target practice. What good is that, what good will you do then.”

“That is _not_ what I meant,” Bucky jumps in, because it isn’t, Steve might be the right hand of God for all he knows now, but that doesn’t mean Steve has to draw the eye of every soldier they come across because then he’ll draw every bullet too. Bucky isn’t broken, he’s a survivor and he’s good at war. 

“I won’t do it alone,” Steve says, anger tight in his voice, “but I will do it. I came here to fight, I became _this_ to fight and help win this war, and now I can. We will win this war and taking down HYDRA’s the best place to start.”

Bucky catches Agent Carter’s eye. They’re realists, they know this song and dance, they know what war is. Steve’s worldview is all about hope and justice; they know what it’s like down in the muck.

Steve’s learning. Bucky heard Colonel Phillips upbraid Steve for ignoring a direct order, that secret air drop is going pretty far out of the regs (and Bucky’s so damn proud). He knows Steve’s got it in him to bend the system. Bucky just doesn’t want it to snap back and break him.

Steve gives a sketched salute. “Bucky. Ma’am.” Then he stalks off, the technological wonder shield strapped to his back, it’s become inseparable from him, and Bucky thinks, That’s how it’s gonna be.

Agent Carter sighs and her perfume hangs in the air as she says, “So stubborn. Did you know he almost died in the serum chamber.” Bucky shakes his head, remembers he was shipped out already, made landfall here in Europe by then, and Steve was being put in a chamber. “He started screaming and even Howard was ready to shut it down, but Steve told them to keep going. I’ll never forget that. Ever.”

“That’s Steve,” Bucky says, meaning _stubborn_ , thinking, Stubborn and dangerously determined and unforgettable.

Steve’s next to a jeep, talking with Gabe, and Gabe says something about the shield, so Steve unhitches it, lays it on the hood and they get into an animated discussion, Bucky sees them talking about throwing it, like a discus (those statues Steve loves in the Met). 

Agent Carter sighs again, stands and says, “Good night, Sergeant.”

“Night, Agent Carter.”

It’s possible Steve was always made for war, Bucky knows this, why else does the kid fight all the time; the shield flashes in the dark and Steve’s on the good side of the battle. Bucky will cover the shadows.

(When he falls asleep that night, all there is is his name, rank, serial number, and the screams.)

-

In the pub, Bucky’s invisible and he likes it that way. He’s sitting crooked and tender on the bar stool, drinking whiskey, slow and burning, because right now, his body feels slow and burning.

He hasn’t slept more than five hours in two days, unless he’s sleeping on the ground, it’s as if he’s back on that surgical table, being pulled to pieces, scooped out and replaced with something he knows is there but he can’t find it.

He’s alien to himself.

He can hear the guys at a table in the other room, laughing into their pints, making toasts, thank the fucking stars we’re alive, and he raises his glass once, thank the fucking stars we’re alive.

He doesn’t feel alive. He’s functioning, and that’s different.

Steve comes to find him, Steve who fills out a uniform and a room like he always has to Bucky, well, the uniform’s new, and Bucky’s staring at him again, can’t seem to help it, Steve Rogers and his beautiful New York mug here in a city fighting the falling bombs. He hears himself say he’ll follow Steve anywhere, Steve, not this Captain America he doesn’t know. Steve’s a fighter first, hero second, both of them without thinking, because that’s his nature and Bucky’s with him all the way, even though he doesn’t need to make sure he’s still breathing or patch him up (Steve heals fast now, faster than normal, and Bucky thinks, Of fucking course).

Steve doesn’t need him. 

Agent Carter sweeps in, gorgeous curves in red, and she never looks away from Steve, the big palooka, Bucky’s got to start the conversation, he tilts his smile and his accent and lets the words roll.

But it’s just an in for Steve, Bucky’s invisible.

That’s probably best for everyone.

-

Steve’s staring at him like he’s seen God. Maybe Bucky is dead. This isn’t just Steve, it’s Steve as if his body’s finally caught up to his heart and his mouth, holy shit, maybe Bucky really is dead.

Steve’s hand gripping his shoulder, walking him out of the crumbling factory grounds, Steve’s fingers squeeze to the point of pain, and Bucky says, “Gimme a gun, I gotta know this is real.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Buck.”

“Sure it does.”

Dugan steps up, gives him a gun and a handful of bullets. Bucky shoves the ammo in his pockets and Steve says, “Feel better?”

“Better? You fuckin kiddin me?” Bucky spits, he’s hurting so hard he can barely walk and to top it off, the shiny cherry on this shit sundae, Steve Rogers, his best friend, his everything left behind, isn’t in the good ol’ U.S. of A., he’s here in the European Theater, in the seventh circle of hell, jumping through hellfire and brimstone and looking like he can lift an M4 Sherman. “No, I ain’t feelin better, I feel like hot toasted shit.”

Steve looks hurt, of course he does, and Bucky rolls his eyes, says, “What the hell’re you doin here, Steve. You’re ‘sposed to be in Brooklyn.”

Morita says, “Hey, pal, we’re all ‘sposed to be somewhere else,” and Dernier shoots off in rapid French before ending in English “drinking wine as the sun sets with the last cigarette of the day before I go to find _la petite mort_ with a warm, giving lady, I will put my mouth _anywhere and everywhere_ on her skin, so bah, American moron.” He makes an obscene gesture and Bucky returns it with interest and Steve frowns as Falsworth raises an eyebrow, “I rather agree with Dernier.”

“No, I mean—shit, what the hell happened.”

“I told you, I joined the Army.”

“You look like you _ate_ the Army.” Bucky can’t get over it, he might be looking at Steve like he’s seen the light from on high. He’s seen things he never could have imagined, things he’ll have nightmares about for decades and in this single moment, Steve still blows all that away, a sweep of a mighty hand coming down from the mountain. “Steve, I can’t—“

“Catch up, jerk,” Steve says, heading to the factory gate, the other soldiers milling around to follow. “We gotta walk.”

“Yeah, sure, but you got some explainin to do.”

The archangel Michael himself better appear with a flaming sword and tell him what Steve is fucking doing here, with a giant star on his chest (taller, broader, like one of those statues Steve loves to draw down at the Met), or Bucky’s about to start a war all his own. He can’t handle this, not right now, he just got pulled off a surgical table, and he’s leapt over fire and watched Steve jump a chasm as if it were a crack in a sidewalk. 

(If there was any part of Bucky that was righteous, then it burst through when Steve told him to go without him and he’s never known such pure crystalline anger, that Steve thinks Bucky would—could _just leave him_ , no, he doesn’t know how the words even came out of Steve’s mouth, except he’s a self-sacrificing asshole who doesn’t seem to realize Bucky’s the same.)

Steve saved him. 

Steve’s currently in conference with some of the soldiers, pointing at the trees, directions back to a camp Bucky guesses, well, he hopes, because they’re behind enemy lines, he remembers that much. 

“Let’s get moving, gotta keep the light,” Steve says and Dugan whistles low, a bird signal, _move out_.

There’s a lot more going on here, these men listening to Steve whose shoulders spell out _natural born leader_ , flocking to Steve’s side (that star on his chest) like prize fighters ready to stand in his corner and Bucky’s become invisible. It’s as if he’s watching a film with two reels, one with the Steve he knew, that tough scrappy fighter hidden in a fragile frame with the mouth that kept him in trouble (he speaks cold hard truth; when Bucky was younger, he thought Steve spoke gospel until they got older and he realized Steve just spoke Steve), the other with the Steve as he is now, some sort of calculating warrior with a berserker body to match. 

He rolls a bullet in his fingers, tests the sights on the gun in his hand, and starts on down the road with everyone else, following a familiar face, Gabe, who says, “The man with a plan. What’re we, the four hundred wise men following a star?”

Bucky snorts. He’s having trouble walking in a straight line and the vision in one eye keeps going in and out, but he’s vertical and that’s enough. Steve glances back at him (he keeps that good eye on Steve, thinks, Oh hell, I forgot the aspirin), then he’s surrounded by GIs, the walking exhausted and he loses sight of anything else but trees for a while.

He’s walking, one foot in front of the other, that’s the way it works, got to keep moving, it’s how you stay alive, then there’s something in his peripheral. Steve, reaching out to balance him and Bucky doesn’t shrug him off, instead he uses their momentum to shove Steve, hard. Steve trips, like the thousand other times Bucky’s done that, and he might be bigger, he might not be how Bucky left him, but he’s so far the same Steve Bucky knows.

“Start talkin before I start throwin punches.”

“Bucky.”

“When I shipped out, you were at home, and you were _safe_ – and now, what, you’re made of steel or somethin, you’re _here_ and you have _no fucking idea_ , Steve, you were safe when I left you, y’know, _in New York_ , safer than here, not the middle of hell—“ He doesn’t know when he became so obsessed with being safe, being alive, oh wait, it’s war and he’s surviving it, but Steve can’t know how afraid he is, Bucky Barnes isn’t scared of anything. He’s damn pissed off rather, Steve was his safe bit of home an ocean away and now this, this is unfuckingacceptable.

“Bucky, fuck, slow down, I know I know _I know_ , but they gave me a chance—“

“They? _They?_ Who’s this mysterious ‘they’ and what do they know about you, Steve, _you_ , they don’t care about you, look what they did to you,” Bucky can’t believe it, he hears his voice shaking out, “you’re not a lab rat, you’re not a fuckin science experiment,” and he flashes back to the table, strapped down with a machine pointed at his head, needles poked into his arms, he stumbles and Steve catches him sideways. “Steve, I swear to God, I will hit you across the mouth with this gun.”

Steve doesn’t let go, stubborn bastard, holding his elbow as if they’re crossing Atlantic Ave. back home. 

“C’mon, Bucky, it’s me,” Steve says and don’t that beat all, he says it like it’s the answer to everything, and for a second, Bucky accepts it like old testament, _these things shall come to pass._

“You wanted to fight, they made you this, and now, what, you fight? You rescue damsels in distress?”

“Filthy, loudmouth damsels in torn uniforms, sure,” Steve says, he still hasn’t let go of Bucky, so Bucky leans against him, why not, he can touch and see a miracle, it happens every day he wakes up alive. “You talk your way into getting captured? Wouldn’t surprise me. Bet your pretty words don’t work on the Germans.”

“They thought I was the finest specimen of American masculinity they’d met yet.”

“Of course they did.”

Dugan circles back to them and ridiculously, tips his hat to Steve. “You must be Rogers. Jimmy here’s mentioned you, once or forty times.”

Bucky’s appalled. “First off, Dugan, you fuckin ape, don’t call me Jimmy, and secondly, I don’t think I _ever_ —“

But Steve looks amused and he shifts his hold on Bucky, doesn’t let go of Bucky, simply switches to shake Dugan’s hand, crooked as they walk. “Corporal,” Steve says, nodding at the insignia on Dugan’s hat.

“Dum Dum, if you want, Captain, Dugan if you’d rather, though my mama called me—“

“A big fuckin pain in the ass,” Bucky says, still smarting from what Dugan said, he didn’t _talk about Steve_ , he just didn’t have stories of a girl back home like the others did, he had his own homegrown battle stories and that was it.

Steve rolls his eyes and Dugan laughs and Bucky’s ribs hitch funny so it takes him a second to breathe, but Steve’s keeping him walking as he and Dugan talk, Morita drifting over with Dernier and soon enough, Falsworth falls in line because once you’re stuck in a cage, you tend to search out what’s comfortable and for a misplaced while, that cage was home.

Except now he’s got Steve, his real true north, and he doesn’t talk, Steve’s doing all the talking, telling the story of the air drop at night. Talking about his old-fashioned knight shield (another damn flag they’re following). Talking about the current position of the war from his perspective.

Bucky doesn’t talk. He’s just a walking bruise.

That’s how it is for a few days, march as well as they can, camp at night, avoid the roads and hide at the sight of patrol lines. No need to start a fight while they’re still healing.

Bucky keeps on going, wondering if Steve is really Steve. The St. Anthony chain is still in his pocket, but he feels lost.

When they get back to camp, it’s to a surprised, awed group of soldiers and a beautiful dame who watches Steve with a knowing smile on her red lips and maybe Steve’s found a new home.

They cheer Captain America and Bucky fades into the crowd and limps off to find some silence.

-

He saw it all too late. The 107th went down like jacks thrown by a little kid, scattered and broken and lost in the dirt.

They threw him in a cage with other men he didn’t know, men from different countries, except Dugan, he knows Dugan, them New York boys stick together, but the others – well, they fought for the first couple of days they were here, then their captors started putting them to work. So they tried to escape, together, seems they all have a common enemy after all, those fucking bastards.

Escape doesn’t work.

They’re beaten, thrown back in the cage, except Bucky. He’s hauled away, boot heels dragging on the floor and he can only see stars, he took a pipe to the head.

When he wakes, his dog tags are choking him.

They have been for days now.

Strapped to a table. Immobilized. He hears screams.

Pain, so much pain, he thinks he’ll die but he doesn’t and that’s _worse_. He feels the hum of a machine in his teeth, spreading up into his skull until there’s _nothing_ but this hum and it’s smearing him to soft pieces, his joints are separating, his bones pulling apart, but he’s still on the table, he can’t close his eyes, he can’t move— 

Let’s try that again, a tiny little man says. And this time, up the power. I want a half dose for twenty minutes. 

No, no, not again, Bucky’s gone blind and he can’t feel his fingers, his chest feels wrong, no, not—

A needle in his arm and electricity skims through his veins.

It happens over and over and over and over and—

That was only fifteen percent. I want twenty-five. Good. How about thirty, thirty-five, forty percent. How long, are we still at _zwanzig minuten. Akzeptabel. Nicht schwer genug zu tun, aber es wird._ Again.

It happens over and over and—

There’s only his name, rank, serial number, and the screams.

-

There’s one night he’s got a St. Anthony chain in his pocket, given to him by a mute farmer in a blasted field and he can’t sleep, fingers on the medal he doesn’t know why he kept. And out of the fog comes Steve, shuffling along like he does when he’s not sure of something, hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Bucky blinks and Steve disappears, then reappears, his wiry silhouette flickering in the trees.

Bucky knows he’s hallucinating because Steve looks like he’s stepped out to go browse the art supplies (“go buy that fuckin eraser, Steve, it’s okay, we're doing fine this week,” “Fine as frog hair,” “No, really—“ “Stop shitting me, Barnes”) and this ghost-Steve’s saying something but Bucky can't hear him.

Then a soldier hacks a cough and Steve’s gone, everything’s back in place.

St. Anthony sits in the little medallion and Bucky says to him, “I ain’t lost.”

-

The ground is fucking cold, what the fuck, he’s sweating on his belly, pinned down and sweating through his clothes, but he’s fucking cold everywhere. There’s dirt in his pockets and a grenade pin in his teeth and next to him, a guy goes down with a bullet hole under his eye.

He swears to God and all his fucking saints that it doesn’t matter to shit anymore what he’s done in the past, whatever he felt guilty about, _it doesn’t matter to shit_ , the only thing that’s real is his breathing and his gun and the guy behind him saying, Holy Mary Mother of God, that’s our own mortar fire, we’re walking into our own—

And there’s a spray of blood across the side of his face and a ringing in his ears, something heavy hits his back, rolls away, as his CO yells, Over the hill, boys, _get the fuck over the hill you fuckin shit-mud rat sonsuvbitches_.

So he goes over the hill like a fucking shit-mud rat son of a bitch.

A few days later, Bucky’s trudging along a road, gun hitched up against his side, not just because it’s survival out here to have your fucking gun at the fucking ready, but to hold his ribs in place. He’s got his boot laced up tight to keep his ankle upright, he’s not going to tell a soul he fucked up his foot, he’ll just keep marching to wherever the hell they’re going, it kinda all looks the same by now.

It starts to rain and he flicks up his collar, for all the good it’ll do, and finds the dirt in his pockets turning to mud.

When they stop, he doesn’t collapse, he sits the fuck down like any other damn soldier in this man’s army, even though he feels feverish. He swears to anyone who’ll hear up in that sky that’s raining ash and mud, it doesn’t matter to shit anymore, he doesn’t feel guilty, he’s left that behind, because guess what, it turns out this is a good war (it’s a shithole of a war, but it’s true through and through). He’s not a good man no matter the stripe, and it turns out he’s good at war, his hands are fast and strong (he’s stolen so many things he’s never kept track), his knife skills are a notch above (Brooklyn fights dirty), his sharpshooting is the envy of his squad (always gotta have an eye out) and they’ve got him as their lookout, get out there Barnes and shoot us some Nazis before we stick our heads up like dumb fucking turkeys. Not many of the other guys know how to really finish a fight, so it turns out, Christ Almighty, he’s good at war. He left everything else behind, he’s here now, the future is a shithole, and that reminds him: the future is _now_ , like those Expo posters said (how long ago was that) and he remembers a punch, that fist pressed right where his dog tags are streaming cold water into his shirt. 

Steve standing at the recruitment office, I gotta do something, Buck.

The hell you do, Bucky thinks, searching through his pack for his canteen. He looks at the walking wounded and swears to everything dead and damned (they’re all damned) that Steve better be back in New York. He’s left all that behind (he’s left his heart in New York, stitched into a skinny frame of bones and blood, he’s left _everything_ behind, no wonder he’s so fucking good at war) and Steve better be there when he gets back.

He laughs because Holy Mary Mother of God he could really use some aspirin.

-

The stars are out tonight. There’s change for the fare home in his right pocket and aspirin he swiped from Mrs. McDougal in his left. The aspirin’s for Steve, just in case. Bucky never knows with Steve, it’s best to just carry aspirin, hell, he might as well carry a first aid kit around with all the knocks the kid takes. Punches, asthma attacks, headaches, who the hell knows, something’ll get him. Bucky rolls his eyes to the sky.

His uniform is starched so stiff, it itches, but he likes how it makes his shoulders look, how the cap tilts, he can see the brim out of the corner of his eye. A girl on the corner said, ‘Hey there, soldier, give ‘em hell,’ and that’s Bucky’s kind of girl, he said, ‘Oh, I will, doll, just for you,’ and she smiled, fingers curling around her purse, but he couldn’t stay and follow that through, he has more he wants right now (he has more he wants), he has to find Steve, he wants Steve to see the Expo, he wants to get him to smile before Bucky leaves.

He leaves in the morning. It’s completely unreal, to be leaving New York, heading overseas and guess he’ll find out if he gets seasick; it’s all unreal and he’s not afraid, Bucky Barnes doesn’t get scared, besides it’s right, he knows it’s right, it’s a good war, a good man’s war, so he’ll go. (He’s not a good man, except how Steve thinks he is and he is only because Steve thinks Bucky’s good and Steve has enough stubborn will in his wiry body to power the Empire State Building or maybe change reality because Bucky isn’t good except how Steve thinks he is.) So he’ll go to this good war, but. He’s not just leaving New York.

It’s completely unreal to be leaving Steve and he doesn’t think he’s leaving him behind, he thinks he’s leaving him safe. Then Bucky finds him in an alley with a garbage can shield and he changes _safe_ to _at least he won’t be taking enemy fire_.

(How can he leave him now?)

Steve stands at the edge of the alley, testing his jaw, still holding the newspaper Bucky gave him. 

“The future, huh,” Steve says and Bucky thinks, My future’s coming right around the corner. Twelve hours is all I got.

“Yeah, let’s go see the future.”

Steve hits him with the newspaper. “I can already see it from here.” He aims a telegraphed fist at Bucky’s tie and normally, Bucky would dodge, them picking fights with each other is how they say hello, but he doesn’t dodge, lets the punch land. Lets himself feel Steve’s fist right on his sternum.

“Oh, really. You some kinda fortune teller now? Palm reader?” His voice sounds wrong, so he clears his throat. “C’mon, The Great All-Seeing Rogers, tell me. Whaddya see.”

“I see an asshole in a good man’s uniform, stinking it up.”

“Fuckin wise guy.”

“Jerk, screw you.”

The stars are out and he keeps an eye on Steve; the girls are there to help ease this passage, fun times in New York with the rest of the world elsewhere in the dark, tonight of all nights bright like any other, and Bucky wants this (oh how he wants more; he pays attention to the girls, but he puts his hands in his pockets, jangling change, rattling the aspirin, his eyes on Steve, his eyes always on Steve).

It doesn’t go how he planned because Steve is Steve. Bucky can talk circles around him like a storm and Steve will stand there with a small smile, as if he’s saying, My what fucking fearsome weather we’re having, I do declare I feel a breeze.

Bucky can talk Steve into all kinds of schemes and Steve can talk them into all kinds of trouble, but this is one thing neither of them can talk their way out of. 

(He’s never tried to talk Steve into bed, never, no matter what, because he’s not a good man except how Steve thinks he is and good men don’t the corrupt the good they have.)

Steve walks away, wanting that war, so Bucky hugs him, salutes him, and Steve shakes his head because Bucky’s in uniform, he knows Steve like all of his fingers, because Bucky’s in uniform and he’s not shoulder to shoulder with him.

Steve walks away and Bucky puts a smile on his face, tilts his head to keep that rakish angle.

After the Expo, after a little dancing, Bucky puts the ladies in a cab and sends them home. It should be momentous, a small chance at something normal, this time before his future arrives. He’s got a matchbook in with the change now, stolen from the bar; he can’t even read the name out here on the street, but he folds a match over, lights it, lets it light the two next to it. He doesn’t have a single cigarette on him, so he lets the matchbook burn, burning up the time. It should be after midnight now, his future’s here.

He heads back to the apartment. Steve’s asleep, curled small on the bed, blankets twisted at his ankles. He sits on the floor, leaning against the bed frame and he doesn’t move when a cold hand finds his neck, he just tilts his head back against Steve’s fingers and stares at the ceiling. Steve’s always been a little stronger than he looks, not much but some, and he squeezes little fingernail moons into Bucky’s skin, Bucky finds them after Steve goes back to sleep.

Bucky doesn’t sleep much. He leaves the aspirin by the bed. As the sun comes up over Brooklyn, Bucky sighs, staring at the dark brutal shapes of the skyline and Steve wakes to slur, “Don’t you die, I’ll fucking kill you, ” as if he’s dreaming, so Bucky says something unfortunate, “Love you too, you punk.” Then he’s out the door before anything gets messy.

-

He’s eighteen and Steve’s talking about art classes. Bucky’s _terrible_ at drawing. He makes dates with a few of the models and drags Steve on double dates and tries not to think about how Steve’s date is ignoring him, fucking rude is what that is. She doesn’t deserve Steve anyway. He breaks up the party early, then he and Steve go get some pie and Bucky doesn’t think too hard about anything.

They go to Coney Island and ride the Cyclone and Steve vomits, but Bucky sits with him on a bench, describing people as they walk by, whistling tunes low to calm Steve down. When his stomach settles, Bucky buys him a funnel cake, then eats most of it. Steve laughs, says, “Fuck you, jerk,” and Bucky licks sugar off his fingers, says, “You missed out, too fuckin bad.” They get drunk and Steve tries to sketch Bucky like he did the first time here on the boardwalk; they help each other home and have the worst hangovers in the morning.

He’s sixteen and it’s summer, hot hot hot, humid and swampy like only New York can be, the heat trapped by the streets and the buildings, exhaust of cars and people. They’re on the roof of the building, the sun gone down a few minutes ago and the sky bends purple overhead. Fireworks and Steve flinches, then laughs at each explosion and Bucky gets him in a headlock, says, “Happy birthday, skinny jerk.” Steve pushes at him, “leggo, you monumental asshole,” and Bucky wants to taste that smile on Steve’s face, he wants and he can’t, so he lets Steve go, says, “I’ll get some lemonade.”

They walk the streets and hustle candy from the green grocer, and pick fights outside of bars. Bucky sweet-talks Mary Sue, mouth on her throat and hand up her skirt, but he gets cold feet, leaves, and finds Steve shaking with fever.

He’s fourteen, thirteen, twelve, and Steve’s always there, scrawny and scrappy and they’re the dynamic duo of their neighborhood, stealing shirts from clotheslines and selling them back to people for laughs, hustling candy from the green grocer, sneaking into the Met. Thick as thieves and just as brash and Bucky isn’t waiting for Steve to catch up, Steve’s taking his time thinking up their next scheme. Bucky isn’t the planner, he just gets the idea, then Steve says, “Hey, let’s do it like this.”

Bucky steals art supplies for Steve and almost gets his hide tanned. Steve gives him chocolate his mom brought home from the hospital and they split it. 

It’s tough in New York, random gangs and roaming dogs and when it gets cold, it’s dangerous, and Steve coughs like his mother does, and Bucky’s scared shitless every time. They eat what they can get and run themselves ragged (careful of Steve’s asthma, Bucky keeps an eye on him, watches for a fever sheen in those big baby blues), and hustle candy from the green grocer.

Bucky get his first kiss, then his second, and he tells Steve all about it.

He’s eleven and steals oranges for Steve and Steve saves up fare to take them to Coney Island except he forgot to save up for anything else, so they walk the boardwalk and throw stale food at the seagulls and stare at the ocean. Waving a hand, Steve says, “Stand right there,” and he sketches Bucky on the back of a playbill they found. 

Steve sticks with Bucky and Bucky’s proud, he’s got a fighter on his side, they’re two knights out to save damsels.

He’s ten, nine, eight, there’s a fight in an alley and it’s none of his business (that’s a good way to get your nose reset), but the kid’s fighting back, not making any ground but not losing any, the kid’s outnumbered and small, breathing funny, still fighting back. So Bucky steps in, breaks it up, puts his foot on someone’s ass and shoves.

The kid wipes at his mouth, says, “I had ‘em on the ropes.” Bucky laughs, “Sure, you did, pal. I’m James Buchanan Barnes, but my friends call me”

-

_Bucky?_

-

New York. There’s something here. 

The rooftop is cold. There’s a matchbook in his right pocket and a sniper scope in his left. He watches the windows in the building across from him, fifth story, three from the right. 

He can light a match off his metal fingers, but he doesn’t. He stares at the book for a second, then folds a match over the bottom without tearing it and strikes the head on the strip, letting it flare. It’s dangerous, even the single lit match, someone could see it.

He presses it back into the book and lets it light the rest of the matches. He sets the burning matchbook on the bricks in front of him.

He pulls the scope out of his pocket and watches the windows through the smoke.

The captain (the man on the bridge, the man in the exhibit, the man smiling and laughing with the other man _ghost_ who wears his face they’re in history books, _as long as history’s been history_ ) wanders from room to room. Which is highly dangerous and maybe the captain doesn’t care. The captain is dangerous himself. So maybe it doesn’t matter ( _it doesn’t matter for shit_ ).

He puts the captain’s skull in the scope’s crosshairs ( _to orient his location in the environment_ ) and waits. 

The captain runs hands through his hair, picks up a sketchbook ( _see for yourself_ ), puts it down, picks up, what is that, a flashlight. The captain turns to the windows, peering out.

Then flashes out a message, no, an order ( _c’mon, I need you watching my back_ ) in Morse code.

Crushing the matchbook with his metal hand, smoke squeezing between his fingers, he stands. He can follow orders. He checks for surveillance and does what will surprise the enemy or get him captured, either way, it will happen ( _these things shall come to pass_ ).

He (the asset _James_ Winter _Buchanan_ Soldier _Barnes_ ) holds a door open for a passing woman, climbs the flights of stairs, and knocks and waits ( _he doesn’t put his hands in his pockets_ ).

The captain’s there, gaze steady ( _a deep fighting blue_ ), and they don’t say anything, then the captain telegraphs his moves ( _telegraphs a punch to his tie_ ), slow, steps in a little close. “You’re here,” the captain says, voice like wonder, like it’s the answer to everything, _and lo it was foretold unto them who believe_. 

The captain doesn’t touch him, simply says, “C’mon.” ( _c’mon, it’s me_ )

So he crosses the threshold and shuts the door.

**Author's Note:**

> so. many. italics. My translations are probably awful; I do sincerely apologize.


End file.
